I had a romance novel inside me, but I paid three sailors to beat it out of me with steel pipes.

September 19, 2012

"I look at myself, I did not see me anymore..."

"At the twilight, a moon appeared in the sky;Then it landed on earth to look at me.Like a hawk stealing a bird at the time of prey;That moon stole me and rushed back into the sky.I looked at myself, I did not see me anymore;For in that moon, my body turned as fine as soul.The nine spheres disappeared in that moon;The ship of my existence drowned in that sea..."

"Better by far you forget and smile

Than you should remember and be sad.."

Thank you, friends. Friends who somehow know I am up at 2:30am in need of sweet words.

3 comments:

Anonymous
said...

I dreamed that dead, and meditating,I lay upon a grave, or bed,(at least, some cold and close-built bower).In the cold heart, its final thoughtstood frozen, drawn immense and clear,stiff and idle as I was there;and we remained unchanged together for a year, a minute, an hour.Suddenly there was a motion,as startling, there, to every senseas an explosion. Then it dropped to insistent, cautious creepingin the region of the heart, prodding me from desperate sleep.I raised my head. A slight young weedhad pushed up through the heart and itsgreen head was nodding on the breast.(All this was in the dark.)It grew an inch like a blade of grass;next, one leaf shot out of its sidea twisting, waving flag, and thentwo leaves moved like a semaphore.The stem grew thick. The nervous rootsreached to each side; the graceful headchanged its position mysteriously,since there was neither sun nor moonto catch its young attention.The rooted heart began to change(not beat) and then it split apartand from it broke a flood of water.Two rivers glanced off from the sides,one to the right, one to the left,two rushing, half-clear streams,(the ribs made of them two cascades)which assuredly, smooth as glass,went off through the fine black grains of earth.The weed was almost swept away;it struggled with its leaves,lifting them fringed with heavy drops.A few drops fell upon my faceand in my eyes, so I could see(or, in that black place, thought I saw)that each drop contained a light,a small, illuminated scene;the weed-deflected stream was madeitself of racing images.(As if a river should carry allthe scenes that it had once reflectedshut in its waters, and not floatingon momentary surfaces.)The weed stood in the severed heart."What are you doing there?" I asked.It lifted its head all dripping wet(with my own thoughts?)and answered then: "I grow," it said,"but to divide your heart again."

The Weed, Elizabeth Bishop

This one's long been a favourite of mine. She has lots more great stuff:Chemin de Fer, Casabianca, The Reprimand, The Gentleman of Shallot,The Fish, Four Poems (Conversation/Rain Towards Morning/While Someone Telephones/O Breath).